Melancholy Baby

It was 11:20, bright and cold with some wind coming up 57th Street off the Hudson, when I settled in opposite Peter Franklin’s office. I was in jeans and sneakers and a warm black trench coat with a lot of zippers. I had on a dark wool watch cap, pulled down over my ears, the kind of hat that I would have to wear for the rest of the day, or suffer the heartbreak of hat hair. In my coat pocket I had a little digital camera with a zoom on it. I looked at my watch. I was betting he’d come out for lunch in the next hour or two.

I had checked out of my hotel. My luggage was in my car, and my car was parked in a garage near Tenth Avenue. Get my pictures and beat it north along the Hudson. While I had been lolling around my room, enjoying solitude and eating breakfast, the phone had rung three times. Each time, I didn’t answer. Each time my message light began to flash, and when I checked the voice mail it was Peter Franklin.

The first message was, “Hey, babe. Where’d you go? Was it something I did... or something I didn’t do? I want to see you again. Give me a call.”

The second and third messages were variations of the first. The second message also contained a graphic anatomical compliment.

Oh, shucks.

The size and quickness of New York always excited me. It always made me think of the way Lewis Mumford had defined a city. Something like “the most options in the least space.” It was all of that.

I was comfortable in New York. I had lived all my life only four hours up the road, and was pretty much at home in Manhattan, though, like most people who didn’t live in New York City, I had only limited experience of the Bronx, Queens, and Brooklyn, and was pretty sure I’d never even been to Staten Island.

I wasn’t much worried that Peter would see me. He wasn’t expecting to see me. I had on the hat and big sunglasses, and was dressed very differently from the last time he’d seen me, even not counting the time he’d seen me undressed. Even if he did see me, it wouldn’t matter much. I’d say I was on my way to say goodbye and stopped to take a sentimental-memory picture of his office building.

At one o’clock I bought a soft pretzel from a vendor and ate it. With yellow mustard. At 1:15, Peter appeared in the doorway of his building with two other men. All three wore dark overcoats and light scarves. Peter had on a soft hat with a wide brim like crime bosses wear in movies. The three of them stopped to talk for a moment on the sidewalk outside the building, and I took some pictures. Peter was animated. The two men nodded. Then one of them talked with a lot of hand gestures, and Peter kept shaking his head. Then, finally, he put his hand up and the man who had been gesturing gave him a high-five and the three of them laughed. The two men turned west and walked away. Peter stood, looking after them, ever solicitous, and I took some more pictures. Then he turned and walked east, toward Sixth Avenue. I put my camera away and headed for my car, walking straight into the wind with my head down a little to keep it from blowing grit in my face.

34

Dr. Silverman was wearing a black suit and a white silk top. She had pearls around her neck and quiet pearl earrings. As usual, she wore no rings. Many married women, of course, didn’t wear wedding rings. I hadn’t worn one much when I was married. Richie had. He wore his like an amulet or something. I wondered if that was meaningful.

“Here’s what happened on my trip to New York,” I said.

Dr. Silverman raised her eyebrows a little to let me know that she was fascinated.

“You know the case I’m working on, Sarah Markham’s real parents and such?”

Dr. Silverman nodded. Did she really remember or was she just encouraging me?

“Well, after Spike and I had the confrontation with the two guys in the woods...”

I looked at her to make sure she remembered. I knew she had many patients. I knew she didn’t take notes. I couldn’t believe she recorded the sessions without my knowledge. So I was dependent on her memory.

“Spike is a useful friend,” she said.

Apparently, she remembered. Though she was so nondirective, as she always was, that I couldn’t be sure. I gave it up.

“Anyway,” I said. “They gave me a name, a lawyer named Ike Rosen, and I went to New York and Ike gave me a name, a lawyer named Peter Franklin, and I talked with Franklin, and he turns out to represent Lolly Drake, the talk-show lady?”

Dr Silverman nodded.

“And Lolly Drake started her career at the same station, at the same time, that George Markham was there.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Dr. Silverman said.

“It could be,” I said. “But deciding that it is leads me nowhere... deciding that it isn’t presents an opportunity.”

“That’s true,” Dr. Silverman said.

Her hands looked strong. Her nails were perfectly manicured with a clear polish that made them gleam quietly. It was hard to figure how old she was. Older than I.

“The thing is,” I said. “Sex reared its ugly head.”

“Ugly,” Dr. Silverman said.